This is a Turkish poem by Nazım Hikmet. I find poems about nuclear war moving and relevant to existential risk themes. The poem has an alarmist tone, some might find it distressing to read. The translation is a mix of Claude and Gemini outputs. I have been able to find only one human-made translation and it was sufficiently different from this translation. But if you see some very similar translation let me know to credit the translator.

Where We Come From and Where We Are Going

Ever since we straightened our backs and rose upon two feet,

ever since we lengthened our reach by the length of a club,

and ever since we carved the stone,

we are the ones who destroy, and the ones who create,

we are the ones who destroy and create in this lovely, this liveable world.

On the roads left behind, our footprints are bloody;

on the roads left behind, the great harmonies of our minds, our hands, our hearts,

in the soil, the stone, the bronze, the canvas, the steel, and the plastic.

Are those our own bloody footprints standing on the roads ahead?

Will the roads before us end in a hellish dead-end?

1

In the palms of children, our days wait their turn,

our days are seeds in the palms of children,

they will sprout in the palms of children.

Children may die tomorrow,

and not from malaria, not from diphtheria,

not by falling into wells or such;

children may die tomorrow,

children may die like bearded soldiers tomorrow,

children may die tomorrow in the light of atomic clouds,

leaving behind not even a handful of ash,

leaving behind nothing but their shadows.

Negative little snapshots in the darkness of the void.

Crematorium, crematorium, crematorium.

I see a sea

a sea covered with dead fish.

Negative little snapshots in the darkness of the void,

our unlived days

vanishing along with the palms of the children.

2

There was a city.

Wind blows where it stood.

There were five cities.

Wind blows where they stood.

There were a hundred cities.

Wind blows where they stood.

No poems will be written for the vanished cities,

for no poets will remain.

Outside your window, a street lined with trees.

Your room is warm.

On the white pillow, hair as black as grapes.

Men in overcoats, trees heavy with snow.

No window will remain for you,

nor the street with lined with trees,

nor the grape-black hair on the white pillow,

nor the men in overcoats, nor the snowy trees.

The dead will not be mourned,

for no eyes will remain to weep for the dead.

No hands will remain.

Negative little snapshots beneath the branches—

beneath the branches that have vanished.

Over the branches that have vanished,

it is those clouds passing by.

Do not take me to the South,

I do not want to die...

I do not want to die,

Do not take me to the North...

Do not take me to the West,

I do not want to die...

I do not want to die,

Do not take me to the East...

Do not leave me here,

take me somewhere.

I do not want to die,

I do not want to die.

It is those clouds passing by

over the branches that have vanished.

3

Under our roofs of wood, concrete, tin, earth, and straw, we number more than two billion,

women, men, the young and old.

Bread is not enough for us all,

books are not enough either,

but sorrow—

as much as you desire,

and exhaustion as far as the eye can see.

Freedom is not enough for us all.

Freedom can be enough for us all,

and no sorrow but the sorrow of love,

the sorrow of illness,

the sorrow of parting,

the sorrow of growing old

need ever cross our threshold.

Books can be enough for us all.

Our lives can be as long as the lives of forests.

If only we do not surrender, if only our unlived days do not vanish

with the palms of the children,

if only those negative snapshots do not emerge into the darkness of the void,

if only we can live to fight on the path of bread and freedom.

The Call

God is our hands,

God is our heart, our mind;

the God who exists everywhere,

in the soil, the stone, the bronze, the canvas, the steel, and the plastic,

and the composer of great harmonies in numbers and in lines.

People, I am calling you:

for the books, the trees, and the fish,

for the grain of wheat, the grain of rice, and the sunny streets,

for the grape-black hair, the straw-blonde hair, and the children.

In the palms of children, our days wait their turn,

our days are seeds in the palms of children,

they will sprout in the palms of children.